


Ask Me Kindly or Not At All

by Meridians_of_Madness



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Angel Crowley (Good Omens), BDSM elements, Demon Aziraphale (Good Omens), Dirty Talk, Embarrassment, M/M, Reverse Omens, Shame, Vaginal Fingering, Verbal Humiliation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-02
Updated: 2020-02-02
Packaged: 2021-02-18 23:33:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,517
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22534942
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Meridians_of_Madness/pseuds/Meridians_of_Madness
Summary: An angelic Crowley does some sexual exploration and decides that a demonic Aziraphale is the best choice for a partner in crime.-Filled for the kink meme prompt locatedhere.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 216
Collections: Top Aziraphale Recs





	Ask Me Kindly or Not At All

Crowley locked the door behind him with a click and blinked several times to adjust to the winter afternoon gloom of the bookstore. The inside of the bookstore was scarcely warmer than the outside, and the smell of crumbling paper and decaying leather made him want to sneeze.

“Aziraphale?” he called uncertainly.

“In the back, dear.”

Aziraphale sat at the desk, a wickedly sharp scalpel in his hand as he excised key pages from a stack of bestsellers. After he was done, they'd be miracled back to the bookstore across town, there to cause Aziraphale's favorite kind of literary mayhem. Crowley hovered in the doorway to his rambling office, oddly shy about crossing the threshold until Aziraphale said he could. He was certain that Aziraphale kept him waiting an extra few seconds before he closed the book neatly and put it on the nearby stack.

“How lovely you look, angel,” he said.

Crowley made a displeased sound.

“Rather _not_ what today's about,” he grumbled.

Aziraphale smiled.

“What a proper slut you look, angel,” he said agreeably.

He was teasing, but Crowley couldn't stop a shiver from going through him at those words.

“Are you done with your books yet?”

Aziraphale hummed a little, twirling the scalpel in his fingers as he glanced over his desk.

“Just five more minutes,” he said. “Why don't you get ready? Be a dear and clear off the divan.”

Aziraphale was already turning back to the next book, and Crowley bit back the urge to say _but you've already put this off twice._

Instead, he stalked to the divan in question, almost invisible under the stacks of documents and pulp novels. He added the detritus to the towering piles to either side, sending up plumes of dust that made him sneeze. The divan underneath was worn but comfortable enough, and Crowley started to sit down before he heard a _tch_ sound from behind him.

“You hardly look ready,” Aziraphale said disapprovingly.

Crowley spread his hands, glaring even as his heart started to beat faster.

“Divan's clean,” he said stubbornly.

“Oh, the divan looks ready, Aziraphale said, and then pointedly, “You don't.”

“What, you want me to strip?” Crowley snapped, and he knew they both heard the eager tremor in his voice.

“Yes, please,” Aziraphale said, going back to the book open in front of him. “I'll just be five minutes, so please do.”

Crowley let the indifference and lack of care in Aziraphale's voice hurt him. Fuck, but it felt good to be hurt like that, not because someone hated him or wanted to kill him, but only because someone didn't care. It told him he was still something that could be hurt, something that felt things and could cry. Nothing had felt the same since leaving Heaven to come to Earth, but maybe this was somewhere in the same stratosphere.

He stripped out of his things swiftly, shuddering a little when his bare feet landed on the cold concrete floor. The cold cut, and he wrapped his arms around his sides.

“Aziraphale,” he said, unable to keep the slight whine out of his voice.

Aziraphale looked up at him, marginally better pleased.

“Just a few more minutes,” he said, tapping his scalpel against the book. “Why don't you play with that pretty pussy of yours?”

Aziraphale smirked a little on the last words, as if already anticipating Crowley's protest.

“I didn't come over here to diddle myself,” Crowley growled, but he must not have sounded all that intimidating, because Aziraphale's smile widened.

“No, you didn't,” he said easily. “You came here to get bent over and buggered until you cry. That's what _you_ like.”

Crowley made a stifled noise of twined horror and arousal, Aziraphale's smile dropped away.

“But, precious, while I do like the idea of one of Heaven's own weeping over how much I've disgraced them, you're not giving me anything so very special. This isn't something that you can speak in words of fire to force my obedience. You don't want to speak of at all, do you?”

Crowley shook his head mutely.

“So now that's clear. And that means, darling, that you can either start playing with that sweet little cunt you keep, or you can leave.”

Aziraphale wrinkled his nose in the most endearing smile and returned to his book.

Mutinously, Crowley threw himself down on the divan, which was just a hair too short to accommodate his full length. The upholstery was worn shiny and slick, so he wedged himself against the back, one knee bent and the opposite foot planted on the cold floor below. The cold helped ground him, and he took a deep breath as he slid a hand between his thighs.

He closed his eyes and spread himself open with one hand while tracing the lips of his cunt with the fingertips of the other. He took in the rough bristle of hair, the shell-sleekness just inside. He knew how pink he was, and how very soft. It was nice.

And that was rather the problem, wasn't it?

Crowley didn't _do_ nice. Didn't want it, didn't really get wet for it, didn't think about it when he was in that blissed-out half-state between sleeping and waking. No, not him, he thought about...

He slit his eyes to look over at the desk, where Aziraphale was setting another book on the stack.

“You _said_ five minutes.”

“Get your fingers inside you, there's a sweet thing,” Aziraphale said, reaching for another copy.

Crowley made a frustrated sound, rubbing a rather brutal circle over his clit. That was a bit better, and he could feel the calloused tips of his fingers drag mercilessly over the skin of his cunt. He went to jab his fingers inside himself, looking for that pop of pain and soreness that could really wake him up, the way he did it when he was alone and thinking about a certain fair-haired demon.

“ _No.”_

The command, sharp as a razor, stopped him, and he looked over to see Aziraphale, hands still on his book, his blue eyes furious.

“You _said_ to touch myself,” Crowley snapped. “Didn't tell me how to do it.”

“I am afraid you have misunderstood the situation, angel. You don't get to be smug tonight.”

Aziraphale stowed the scalpel away, and then he approached the divan, menace in every step. Crowley instinctively tried to close his legs, but Aziraphale yanked them apart again. Oh _that_ helped, and he knew that Aziraphale could smell his sudden spike of arousal.

“It's such a pity, a pretty thing like this,” Aziraphale said with something like regret. “Prettiest I ever did see.”

Before Crowley could protest, Aziraphale reached down between his legs, cupping him for a moment before rolling the soft lips of his pussy between his fingers. His touch was firm, just shy of too much, and therefore not enough. Crowley groaned, looking away.

“You don't care for it at all, do you?”

Crowley was silent until Aziraphale slicked two fingers inside his cunt. Oh, he _had_ gotten wet, and there was only a bare little pinch, far from enough as Aziraphale fingered him.

“ _Do_ you?”

There was a part of Crowley that wanted to be brave, but as he had said earlier, it rather wasn't the point tonight.

“No,” he gasped, squirming against Aziraphale's touch. “No, I don't.”

“Pity,” the demon said again. “I would want to be nice to you if this was what I was fucking tonight. I would take _such_ good care of you, make you come over and over again, hold you, kiss you, tell you how very precious you were to me.”

Crowley thrashed, because yes, yes, that was _fine,_ it was just _fine,_ but that wasn't what he wanted, was _never_ what he wanted. A little voice in his head piped up that perhaps... perhaps it might be different with a thing like Aziraphale, but then it was silenced as Aziraphale pulled his hand away with a sharp jerk, leaving Crowley gasping and wide-eyed.

“No,” said Aziraphale with a small sharp smile. “No, not you, terrible angel that you are. You want something else.”

Crowley yelped as Aziraphale took him by the arm and yanked him to his feet. The demon was terrifically strong, more than capable of manhandling him around behind the divan and shoving him over the back with a hand between his shoulder blades. Crowley would have overbalanced, sent tumbling to the front again, if Aziraphale had grabbed him and forced him into position. Crowley whined as Aziraphale nudged his feet apart with the toe of his shoe.

“What a wretched angel,” Aziraphale said softly. “Utterly filthy. How long have you been thinking about this, hmm?'

Crowley's entire body tingled with heat, and if the way Aziraphale spread his legs earlier hadn't done it, this would. He felt as if some essential protection inside him had melted and it left him this shivering thing.

“I... I...”

“I... I...” mimicked Aziraphale. He reached forward, taking a fistful of Crowley's hair and yanking back. “Tell me.”

“Almost- almost since the beginning,” Crowley muttered, turning as red as his hair. “Since I heard someone say it was disgusting, that it was painful, that no one would ever want it.”

He thought that would be enough, but Aziraphale put his clothed weight over Crowley's back ,leaning forward to murmur in his ear.

“And how did that make you feel?”

“Like I was wound up into knots. Like I was going to light on fire.”

“Hm. You heard about it, and you immediately wanted to go find the first man-shaped thing that might obligingly split you on his cock.”

Crowley's hips thrust of their own accord, because that was... that was more true than he liked to consider.

“Why didn't you?” asked Aziraphale curiously, rocking his hips against Crowley's. He could already feel the rigid column in Aziraphale's trousers pressed against him. He realized with a very private satisfaction that Aziraphale had been hard for some time.

“You know angels can't,” Crowley protested. “You know we're not _supposed_ to.”

“Not supposed to be in love with your car, either,” Aziraphale commented. “Not supposed _fraternize_ with the enemy, but here we are.”

Crowley whimpered, and Aziraphale's hand shifted on his hair only to grasp it more tightly.

“You're not supposed to want a demon to sodomize you,” Aziraphale informed him. “You're not meant to be bent over and buggered, impaled on a cock and saying thank you. You're not supposed to want to get fucked in this disgusting _fucking_ way.”

Some rusty self-preservation instinct in Crowley kicked up. There was something strange in Aziraphale's voice, something that sounded more than just disgusted. His hand went up to cover Aziraphale's hand on his hair, he started to stand up.

“Aziraphale.”

“ _No.”_

Aziraphale forced him back down, driving his hips hard into the edge of the divan. There was an echo of a black kite's cry in his voice, shrill and furious.

“No,” Aziraphale said more calmly. “You want this. You were oh so coy when you got drunk and told me all about your perversity. And then the next morning, you tried to tell me it was all a joke.”

Aziraphale snorted.

“Please believe me, precious, I have heard _that_ one before. _Oh no, I don't_ really _want it, I was just messing about. I wouldn't want something that foul, it was only a joke!_ How shameless you were, trying that on something like me. _”_

Crowley winced, because it wasn't word-for-word, but it was close, and then, a little later, Aziraphale had informed him you could only joke about something twice; the third time, you were usually dead serious. He hadn't had anything to say to that, and here they were.

“Look at you now. If I reached down to play with that pretty cunt of yours, you'd be coming in no time, even if it wasn't your favorite. I can smell you, you know, could ever since you walked in, you despicable little slut. It might not be enough for you, but oh how pretty you would be coming on my fingers.”

The desperation was welling up in Crowley. He knew with a kind of heady despair that it would never be the same alone in his bed with only his fingers or whatever toys he nervously conjured up. No, it would have to be Aziraphale after this or it might be worse than nothing.

“But you don't want that, and my beloved must always get what he wants.”

Crowley jumped at the endearment, one that Aziraphale had never used on him before, but then Aziraphale's hand dropped from his head. A few moments later, Crowley gasped as Aziraphale tugged him open without any great care, exposing him in a way that he had never been exposed before.

“Almost as pretty as the other,” Aziraphale commented. “Now let's see if you really can take it.”

Crowley jumped at the snap of a a plastic lid flipped open, and then he gasped as something far too cold was drizzled over his hole.

“Feels disgusting, doesn't it?” said Aziraphale sympathetically. “You must be still, though, because if you irritate me too much with your whining and crying, I'll let you go without.”

Crowley bucked at that, and Aziraphale pressed a heavy hand against the small of his back to pin him in place.

“Ohhh,” said Aziraphale with dawning understanding. “Maybe you've thought about that too? Did you think about it being too rough to take, of being made helpless? Is _that_ what you wanted?”

Crowley gritted his teeth, because he was _not_ going to answer that one. He didn't. He liked his corporation well enough to take good care of it, wouldn't... wouldn't _intentionally harm_ it, but people could be so rough, so demanding when their pleasure overwhelmed him. That was how he wanted to be taken, and thank Somebody that for all his shrewdness, Aziraphale did not seem to know.

Crowley squalled in surprise at the first hard press of Aziraphale's fingers against his hole. It was and wasn't like what he had done on his own, his body stretched out over the furniture instead of contorted in his own bed. There was a kind of inevitability to it, and a slight burn as Aziraphale started with two fingers rather than just one.

“Hurts,” he whispered, because that was part of it too, saying things like that. It didn't hurt, not really. Crowley squeezed down on Aziraphale's fingers, rocking slightly and doing absolutely nothing to pull away. “Aziraphale, please, hurts...”

“How in the world is that my problem?” Aziraphale said with a touch of asperity. “This is what silly little sluts who chase after things like this get. This is what you asked for, angel of mine. This is what you dreamed about, fantasized about, for centuries.”

He prepared Crowley roughly, scissoring his fingers with merciless strength as Crowley allowed his cries to get higher and louder and more helpless. This was... this was almost good enough. The stretch, Aziraphale's attention focused entirely on him, the position, the things the demon was saying, it was _almost_ enough.

“Please,” he begged, and something about his tone made Aziraphale pull his fingers away fast enough that Crowley was left gasping. Then Aziraphale's fingers were replaced with his cock, and Crowley wailed as Aziraphale pushed into him firmly. The stretch was strange enough that Crowley nearly panicked, except that Aziraphale was right, this was exactly what he had wanted. He wanted to be overwhelmed, taken, _fucked._

“Poor angel,” Aziraphale said mockingly. “Look at you taking my cock as if you were made for it. You want this so much. You can cry and yell all you like, but you and I will know better, won't we, darling? We'll know how greedy you are, what kind of filthy slut you are. That's what _you_ are, writhing like that, trying to get more.”

Crowley actually did start to cry when Aziraphale began fucking him, his thrusts deep enough that they halfway lifted Crowley off his feet. He had never been more aware of Aziraphale's size and strength than he was in this moment. He might have been taller than the demon, but that mattered not at all as Aziraphale held him and fucked into his hole. He wasn't an angel anymore. He was a tool, or perhaps a toy, something the Demon Aziraphale used to gratify his lust.

_I'm a principality,_ Crowley thought, sending another delicious shudder of humiliation down his spine. _I can't do this, I can't let him do this to me, I can't, I'm an angel, I'm the nice one, I'm not supposed to want this. It's not supposed to feel this good, it's filthy, I'm not supposed to..._

The thoughts whirled around his head, combining somehow with the sensation of Aziraphale fucking him as if he had been made to do it. It was exactly what he had wanted and more. Every part of him felt violated, made to serve and bent to a will stronger than his own... wait...

Crowley fortunately didn't have to get into the sudden revelation of why he might have craved this specific act so very much because suddenly a hot tightness drew hard on his core, and for just a moment, he was aware of his own arousal and the lube dripping down his thighs as well as Aziraphale's hissed insults which, hm, for some reason sounded like something else now. Then his entirely body seemed to crash with pleasure, his nerves lit up, and all of his focus narrowed down to Aziraphale's thick cock inside him, Aziraphale's hard hands jerking his hips back to go deeper.

The ringing was just about out of his ears, his body relaxing, when Aziraphale leaned forward, planting a gentle kiss between his shoulders just before he came with one last thrust. Crowley's eyes drifted closed as Aziraphale's spendings filled him, hot and primal in a way he was sure an angel shouldn't allow, but he had done more than allow what they had done today. He had asked, begged, even, and he thought that sooner rather than later, he would be back to ask again.

Crowley was content to hang over the back of the divan until doomsday, but Aziraphale pulled out, gentle and almost sweet. Then he somehow tumbled Crowley over the top of the divan, which now seemed to have just enough space for him to stretch out. Before he landed on the cushions, Crowley was aware that he had been cleaned up entirely, something that was strangely disappointing. He swallowed at the idea of staying as he was, Aziraphale's come dripping out of him. Crowley found himself looking up at Aziraphale, who hung over the back to look down at him.

“Well,” he croaked, the back of his throat raw from his cries. “That was...”

He trailed off. There had been what he had thought at home in his own bed. There was what he had thought it would be like walking in the door what felt like hours ago. There was what it was truly like with Aziraphale's weight on his back, Aziraphale filling him, Aziraphale's voice saying just the perfect things.

“That was a thing that happened,” Aziraphale said, turning away briskly. “That is all that needs to be said, angel.”

_Not his beloved,_ Crowley thought with a slight pang.

“I should likely get a move on,” he said vaguely. He wasn't sure that he could. His legs felt like jelly, and his entire body echoed with what they had done. Imagining himself on the London streets in this condition was not to be borne.

“Oh, please do not play game as a pebble with me,” Aziraphale snorted. “You look like you're going to topple over.”

Crowley started to say he was fine, but then a fluffy blanket was dropping down on top of him, heavy and already so warm that his eyes started to drift shut.

“Come lie down with me,” he said, drowsy enough that it could be only a sleepy whim. “Bet we could find enough room for two on here if we looked.”

Aziraphale was silent so long that Crowley started to sit up to look at him, but then a heavy hand pushed him firmly back down.

“Best not,” said Aziraphale quietly. “We have engaged in enough perversity for the day, don't you think?”

Crowley wanted to say that it wasn't perversity, that nothing they did together could be. There were games, there was playacting, there was drama, of course there was, because Crowley knew that they both rather loved the highs and the lows, but perverse or wrong? No. Never.

Then he thought of that gentle kiss. He thought of _my beloved_ and _angel of mine,_ passed by so quickly he could barely convince himself that they had been there at all. Demons had their own sense of morality and filth.

“All right,” he said gently, and snuggling down deeper into the blanket on the divan that fit him perfectly, Crowley went to sleep.


End file.
